


Calling

by Airmid



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Demon Dean Winchester, M/M, Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Pre-Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22312210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airmid/pseuds/Airmid
Summary: Death wants something that has no name.
Relationships: Death/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 45





	Calling

* * *

Crowley was going off again about the wonders of their relationship and what they could be and he, well, he just couldn’t take it anymore without gutting him. 

There was some strange force, like a hand resting on his shoulder to keep the muscles from moving, encircling his wrist to keep it from bending and driving home a blade into that twisted face, that was binding in him. He didn’t think it was the Mark, couldn’t be the Mark holding him back from something so simple, but he needed Dean time. Away from smug assholes who thought they had it all figured out with minions that hated but still served because they were spineless.

He especially disliked spineless. 

So he moved himself to where maybe he could get some passable burger and a little peace before he got found or had to kill. That thrum, low and resounding through all parts of him made itself larger and larger till he could feel warm blood spilling and staining his skin. Wanted to bathe in it at times and it was some little thread, some little strand that he couldn’t name or care to that forced him back from that. Forced him to just kill and leave, to move on without rubbing the blood all over his damn face.

Sam was still calling. Injured and stupid and trying to track him like he was that Dean anymore.

“I would think you would find better food.”

It was familiar that voice seeping out like it was from far away and almost dead. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. 

He looked up.

“Just wanted something classic.”

That figure just looked at him with mild disgust before settling himself into the booth across from him. He still looked like death, fitting given who he was, what he was. Sunken cheeks with ashen skin and that stern shape of his nose. Fingers far too thin to be of a living guy resting on the table as the being barely shifted, barely moved his black clothes that hung like a loose sheet on bones.

Dean found himself wondering just where the gold-topped cane that had been in this thing’s hand when standing had gone to when he sat.

“Come to just insult my food choices?” he asked instead, taking a bite and it was a passable burger. Typical dining fare at these little places squatting on the side of highways and back roads, making money because nothing else bothered to move in and do better. 

“No, but if it gets you to eat better I will.”

Dean snorted because that was hilarious. Eat better. This was the being that liked bacon-wrapped hot dogs and deep-dish pizza was now lecturing him on his taste buds as if he had them. 

Bone fingers with a fine layer of flesh reached out and took a fry off his plate and he knew, oh damn it all to hell, did he know even in this state of twisted wrongness, not to push it away. Some chewing from his uninvited guest, a twist and grimace as though it was poison, and he rolled his eyes despite some unsettled terror that was living in his stomach.

“This will not do.”

The world melted away, not like angel airlines. It wasn’t like that at all because he could see it and some burbling helpful thought said maybe it was because he was dead. Maybe he saw better because he wasn’t just a meat suit anymore.

Dean didn’t think that was it.

As steel trim and black vinyl melted and ran away like dark rivers carrying away the sounds and clatter of life that he still wanted to hear he wondered if he would be swept away in it. Instead, the floor returned and he was still sitting, just on a chair. One that was comfortable and padded and didn’t make his back bend in strange ways because style was way better than comfort. 

He saw his guest hold up two fingers to someone before his eyes could clearly see they were in some upscale joint, one with cloth napkins and real silver with low lighting which he always suspected was to keep people from complaining about how the food looks and focusing them on the atmosphere.

“Put the eyes away, Dean. I have never led you wrong on food before.”

“Yeah, but I’ve only eaten with you twice,” he tried for snappy and it came to him as he let his demonic self slide back, let his eyes filter back to green instead of black. Didn’t need to terrorize the locals of whatever the hell locale they were in. “Thought you didn’t care about us monkey’s on this little planet just out of its diapers.”

“You have become interesting to me now.”

Dean didn’t know how to take that, how to process that, even as Death leand forward, tapping the mark that sang and burned just under the fabric.

He didn’t know why everyone couldn’t see it. Why everyone didn’t know he carried a thing on fire on his arm that whispered and wanted and longed for just what this thing was in front of him. 

“In fact, I dare say you are the most interesting bearer of the Mark,” Death continued as he leaned back again, folding his hands on the table, bones creaking and cracking like dry twigs ready for a second life at kindling. A thought of old dead leaves filled his mind as Death’s jacket shifted.

“So?”

“Manners, Dean. You are interesting but I will not tolerate disrespect.”

His eyes rolled at that before he could stop them but he knew it was expected. There wasn’t a BS mode for this thing. “And why is that, sir?”

That smile, a long slow sneer drawn across that worn face and he shuddered, hating his cocky response instantly.

“Did you wonder why you aren’t slaughtering demons and humans and simply anything you like? Why you haven’t taken that little pest that dares place a crown upon his head and simply thrust your hand through his gut to pull out his entrails while he watched?”

This, he could do this as he smiled, all teeth and need at the want of violence. “Maybe I’m just a classier guy than you thought.”

“Maybe there’s just a small speck of human in there that just won’t die.”

He swallowed because it couldn’t be that. He was dead. That he remembered. That he knew and embraced and accepted because there wasn’t anything else for him to worry about anymore.

Except there was. 

There was still that stupid, hindering thought that he couldn’t just murder. Not just couldn’t, that he didn’t want to murder and sell it wholesale. That he couldn’t bring himself to just reach over and gut the woman with her three children next to them no matter how much he wanted to prove how he reveled in what he was now. 

The mark thrummed louder, wanting him to slaughter the whole damn place, liquid life splashed against the wall like a garish accent to its dark paneling and suave leather seats. Wanted him to spray blood and little specks of human against low hanging lights in their painted shells and make the fire sputter as it burned a dismembered hand, or a head with a mouth still opened in surprise.

Christ, he wanted that and couldn’t do it. Shouldn’t do it. 

“You are still all tangled up in your brother,” Death answered his unasked question and he jumped because he had forgotten where he was and he couldn’t do that. That was bad, not when he was dining with something that could just breathe and kill this room without thought. “Yet you still don’t see it.”

“Sammy’s not my bag anymore. Off doing his own thing and leaving his whining voicemails.”

“Tell me, Dean, what would you do if someone hurt him. Killed him.”

“Kill them.” He shrugged, it was natural. Sam was his. No one could touch what was his and get away with it. “Not like I’d come if Sam was in trouble.”

“No, you would not.” Death was leaning forward, fingers outstretched and he felt a chill as they touched his shirt sleeve where the Mark was. Something angry flowed in him, then something that was colder than anything he could imagine. Something that ran up in him, pooled in his belly before making him lean forward, making him crave that strange thing that had just flared and sputtered inside him.

The food came then, surprisingly fast. Or maybe he had just lost track of his shit which was a real possibility given how off his mind was. A large steak, some kind of fancy potatoes and vegetables and he cut the meat. It was so rare it bleed a little before it melted in his mouth and he couldn’t help but let out some little helpless moan at how good it was.

Never, in his life or damned life, had he had a steak as good as this.

“I don’t get you, man,” he said, trying to slow down his steak-eating. “Why wine and dine me? You know I’d listen to you without all the fancy stuff.”

He couldn’t help the cocky snark at the end. He was Dean Winchester after all and the slight amused pull at that thin mouth told him Death knew it too. 

“I want you to come with me.”

“Where? For dessert, a romp, to keep your company on your rounds?”

“It’s not something that your puny intellect will understand until you are there.”

“Sounds just right up my alley when you put it so sweetly.” And damn if that didn’t sound terrible. He didn’t want to leave earth behind even if he got to lose Crowley and his gang of semi-effectual demons. If it meant he wouldn’t have Sam calling and tracking and demanding to see him so he could splash on the holy water and try to drag him home to ‘help’ him.

Sammy didn’t understand, didn’t get it. Couldn’t get it and something in him itched to make Sam one of them. So that Sam could be with him and they could just do whatever they liked. 

Part of him wanted to shove a blade through his brother’s neck and let him twitch and bleed and blunder off to heaven and just be done.

“Dean.” 

He noticed they had eaten and Death was leaning forward again. “I’ll let you think about it. You’ll figure out how to call me, I do know now you aren’t as stupid as you believe yourself to be.”

Fingers were on his palm, that same cold chill that raced and iced his veins as the demands from this hell-bound curse he had on his arm quieted. Watched and then he was back at that dinner he had started in. Same booth, same burger that was so unappetizing after that. It was mildly warm, tolerable and he’d had worse. Cold soupy buns and fake cheese congealed into something like boiled fat and clots, grease in thick clumps around wrappers.

Yeah, he had worse and had eaten it.

But he didn’t have to now so he was gone, somewhere that people trying to find him and whine and bitch and moan about their shit couldn’t do that. It was clear here, air pure and sweet and not for him. Not for him now and some little piece of him flaked off that no matter how much he sang or screwed women or drank it wouldn’t bring back that strange simple thing.

His hand still throbbed where it had been touched, something that wasn’t threatening but was all the same and he looked down expecting to see a mark. There was none, nothing out of his sight but it didn’t help him not feel it. To not feel pressure and blood pushing to the wrong parts of his body as he stared up into the sky.

Now, whatever the hell that had been, he wanted it.


End file.
